


But It Ain't Me, Babe

by wesley2015remaster



Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Dolenzmith - Freeform, M/M, jork is kind of in the background sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:33:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26655205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesley2015remaster/pseuds/wesley2015remaster
Summary: Mike and Micky's few shared moments within the confines of their bedroom.
Relationships: Davy Jones/Peter Tork, Micky Dolenz/Mike Nesmith
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	But It Ain't Me, Babe

"What are you doing, Mike?"  
  
Mike jumped in fright. He hadn't been expecting anyone to be awake at this time, least of all Micky. But, he supposed, if you share a room with a guy long enough, you probably get used to them being around of a nighttime. You'd probably pick up on when they attempt to sneak around, too.  
  
Mike turned to see Micky, a tired, lanky mess of curls, leaning over the banister, looking down at his friend in the kitchen. Mike rubbed his eyes.  
  
"I couldn't sleep," he mumbled. "Makin' coffee."  
  
Mike turned his back on Micky, seeking out a coffee cup in the cabinets through his bleary eyes. He could faintly hear Micky making his way down the stairs, two steps at a time.  
  
"Well I don't think coffee is going to make you sleep any better," Micky chuckled breathily, keeping his voice low so as to not wake Peter and Davy in the downstairs bedroom. Though they both slept like rocks. "Come on, come back to bed, Mike."  
  
Mike was about to argue - _nothin'll make me able to sleep, shotgun, I've resigned to depending on caffeine to make it to tomorrow -_ but Micky insisted, grabbing Mike's forearm and pulling him back up the stairs where he had just come. All arguments Mike had were dead on arrival. He tripped over his own feet, not expecting to be pulled into movement, before letting Micky lead him to their bedroom.  
  
Mike stood awkwardly in the doorway, watching Micky move towards their record collection, flicking through the different vinyls with nimble fingers. He seemed to find something, showing his satisfaction with a wide grin, before turning back to Mike.  
  
"Close the door, Mike," he said with a look that told Mike he looked like a fool, just standing there. "Don't wanna wake up Davy 'n' Peter."  
  
Mike liked the soft way Micky spoke late at night. He liked the way Micky spoke.  
  
"I'm not a big fan of Dylan," Micky said, with a sheepish, and playfully disgusted expression, as he carefully placed the needle of the record player on the vinyl. "But I know you like him, so ..."  
  
Mike was still standing awkwardly at the perimetre of the room, his back now pressed against the closed door. The record began playing quietly, and Micky laid himself down on Mike's bed.  
  
"C'mon, dummy," Micky smirked, patting the small space next to him, beckoning Mike to sit. Mike must have been desperately tired, because he was brave enough to lay his head down on Micky's torso, his long legs hanging over the side of the twin sized bed. The first song of the record, _All I Really Want To Do,_ wailed on in the background. "Gosh, he really can't sing, can he?"  
  
"Yeah, but you get used to it," Mike said. "And I think he has his moments. He makes it work for the kind of music he makes. If makin' tunes was all about the voice, then I would be doomed from the start."  
  
"Aw c'mon, Mike," Micky sighed, poking at his friend's cheek. Micky always got like that whenever Mike made a passing self deprecating comment, always saying ' _c'mon, Mike'._ "You're my favourite singer. Don't tell Davy. And you're definitely better than Mr Bobby over here."  
  
"If you don't like the record, you can turn it off, man," Mike said, but he was too preoccupied with blushing to be too offended that Micky didn't approve of his music taste.  
  
"I'm just playing around, I secretly dig it," Micky chuckled, poking Mike's cheek once again. But then he twisted his face into a grimace. "I don't think harmonica is really my bag, though."  
  
"Hey!" Mike argued. "I happen to think the harmonica is a very dignified instrument."  
  
"Dignified my ass!" Micky laughed. "It sounds like a little bagpipe, and everyone hates bagpipes! I don't know how all these protest singers managed to convince everyone that the harmonica sounded good."  
  
"They wouldn't be able to trick that many people if there wasn't somethin' good about it," Mike grumbled, and Micky smiled at his defensiveness.  
  
"I don't buy it," Micky said. He went into a long winded rant about harmonicas, and Bob Dylan, and folk music, that Mike only half listened to. Mostly he closed his eyes and felt the rise and fall of Micky as he breathed. At some point Micky had begun to stroke his hands through Mike's hair as he spoke.  
  
The record was beginning to come to its end. Micky had to put his raving on pause as he flipped it over to the B-side. Mike felt uncomfortable with no longer being able to use Micky as a pillow. He couldn't see himself being able to get lucky again in being allowed to show such blatant affection - surely Micky would stop letting him get away with it. But as he made his way back to the bed, Micky just casually lifted Mike's head and returned it to its previous position, continuing to talk.  
  
Micky was always rather affectionate, and Mike wasn't exactly one in the habit of personal space, especially with his monkees. But, still, every gentle stroke of Micky's hand through his hair felt too good to be true.  
  
"I did like The Byrds' cover of this song," Micky said suddenly. Mike had stopped paying attention to which songs were playing. It was so quiet it had become background noise. "Have you heard that one yet, Mike?"  
  
"Not yet," Mike yawned.  
  
" _Ah, but I was so much ooolder then, I'm younger than that now,"_ Micky sang, in an awful impression of Bob Dylan.  
  
"I think you oughtta stick to the inimitable James Cagney," Mike chuckled breathily. Micky pouted. Mike took pity and joined him on the next verse, in arguably an even less accurate impression, " _In a soldier's stance, I aimed my hand at the mongrel dogs who teach ..."_  
  
Mike continued, egged on when Micky was thrown into a fit of giggles at the way Mike's voice cracked as he wallowed, but eventually Mike was smiling too much to keep it up, and ended up trying to shush Micky through his own laughs. "I know I said you were better than Dylan but after that I'm not too sure."  
  
Micky grew silent as he calmed down.  
  
Mike hummed the rest of the song quietly, and Micky listened to him. They were both growing tired. Mike felt a little guilty at keeping Micky up for so long. _What time was it anyway?_ Mike dared not check.  
  
Several minutes passed with neither of them saying a word, until the last song of the album began. "Oh, I do like this one," Micky said softly, in a kind of half-gasp. He sang the first few lines in his real voice, the joke impression gone now. " _Go away from my window, leave at your own chosen speed."_  
  
Micky must have known what this whole ordeal was doing to Mike. To be so close in his bed like this, whispering to not wake up Peter and Davy, choosing to put on a record that he knew Mike liked just to make him happy. To sing to him like this. Letting him keep his head in his lap. He had to have known. Only an idiot wouldn't have known. And Micky was stupid but he wasn't an idiot.  
  
And god, Mike felt pathetic. He shouldn't be taking advantage of this the way he did. Shouldn't be making Micky feel obliged to indulge him. But he couldn't bring himself to stop. He told himself he would be making things even more awkward if he suddenly made a fuss, that if Micky hadn't already the wrong idea, then doing that would bring him past the point of no return. But really, he was selfish, and he was weak.  
  
Contradictory to his own self pity, he ended up adjusting his position, so he was lying beside Micky, with his head on Micky's chest. He could feel the vibrations as Micky hummed the song. Mike closed his eyes. He could hear the song playing ever so quietly.  
  
 _A lover for your life and nothing more,_  
  
 _But it ain't me, babe_  
  
 _\---------------------------------------------------------------------_  
  
Mike woke up early. He was still tired; he had probably ended up with only a few extra hours of sleep.  
  
He yawned and stretched as he came to his senses. He realised that underneath him was only his own pillow. Micky was nowhere to be seen.  
  
Mike made his way down to the kitchen, picking up his abandoned coffee cup from the previous night. He would be needing to depend on caffeine after all. The pad was eerily quiet, and the smell of early morning lingered.  
  
Micky was never awake this early. _Oh, god, I probably scared him away,_ Mike thought, _I dragged him into my mess, and now I've scared him away._  
  
He had never said it aloud, but there wasn't a way in hell the other monkees didn't know. He had never shown much interest in women, aside from a few moments which were mostly to save face. And the way he was always clinging to Micky, wanting to be around him whenever he was near - how could he have been so _stupid._  
  
Mike sat on the couch, wondering what the hell he was going to do. He figured his best choice was to ignore the whole situation. Trying to downplay it to Micky would only make it sound like a bigger deal than it was. If Micky didn't want to talk about it, than neither would Mike.  
  
And it seemed Micky obviously did _not_ want to talk about it, considering in the next few days, he came home with a girlfriend.  
  
Michelle was french, with a lilting accent that complimented her smooth, breathy way of talking. She was tall and spoke good english. Micky had met her on the beach the morning he had woken up early and disappeared, and their relationship seemed to have begun quite quickly without much thought on either's behalf. They seemed to have just ... fell together. Just like that.  
  
She was a smart girl, a student at the university, and her level headedness was a good match for Micky. While Mike had been thrust into the position of leading the monkees, Michelle took up the role of leading, and Micky followed wherever she went.  
  
She was a perfectly fine girl, if a little condescending at times, but she was charming and witty. She seemed to be friendliest with Peter, but there was an awkwardness between her and Mike that she couldn't quite get past no matter how hard she tried. Mike felt like an asshole. She was likeable, but there was an irrational bitterness at the heart of Mike's interactions with her.  
  
 _I should at least get to know her before I hate her,_ Mike thought. But he knew he wouldn't allow himself to get to know her, because then he'd have to face it that he wouldn't be able to be mad. He would have to come to terms with the fact that he would never, in a million years, be able to have Micky like Michelle did, and that if Micky was happy, then he would have to be too.  
  
Still, Mike couldn't help but compare himself to Michelle. Which was beyond stupid - he was never going to be comparable to a woman in Micky's eyes. But he was on an irrational streak.  
  
They were rehearsing for a gig that weekend, and Michelle was their audience. Once they finished their set, she clapped her hands and took Micky up in conversation. Mike couldn't help but think about her smooth, sing song voice and her pretty accent. He hated his own accent and the way it made him sound like he was spitting out words instead of saying them. He hated the way his voice cracked and ran away from him when he got excited.  
  
Tired of his bout of self pity, he retired to the kitchen, hoping some food might satiate him. Rejection really drained him.  
  
"You don't like Michelle," Peter said, coming into the kitchen behind him. Mike jumped. _What is with these people and sneaking up on me?_  
  
"I don't like anybody," Mike joked.  
  
"You like me," Peter said. "And Davy and Micky."  
  
"I tolerate you," Mike said in return. "I'm still makin' up my mind on whether I like you."  
  
Peter pouted a little. "I'm only playing, Pete," Mike added.  
  
"I know," Peter smiled. "But I had you for a minute there ... So why don't you like Micky's girlfriend."  
  
"It's very complicated, shotgun," Mike said carefully. "And I don't _not_ like her."  
  
"D'ya think she's not good enough for Micky?" Peter inquired with a smile that was almost knowing.  
  
"I think Micky's not good enough for her," Mike smiled back, hoping that would be sufficient for Peter to back off. It was. Mike sighed in relief.  
  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
The gig came and went, and they played alright. Michelle was supporting Micky in the crowd. After the show, she came over as they were packing up and Micky wrapped his arm around her and brought her to the bar to buy her a drink. There they went, shoulder to shoulder, with nothing in the world to worry about. Micky was smiling and laughing with her, and she was beaming at him. Mike would never be able to be with Micky like that. He would never be able to be what Micky needed. Maybe it was best that Micky ran off with women instead.  
  
"Davy and I are gonna stay out a bit, see what's still open," Peter told Mike, pulling him out of his jealous reverie. Davy was casually clinging onto Peter's sleeve and had a strange look in his eyes and a slight smirk as he looked at Peter. "Are you alright to take everything home? I think Micky is gonna go home with Michelle tonight. We can help you if you want."  
  
Mike surveyed the pair, curiously. Now that he thought about it, there weren't many girls hanging around Davy lately. "Nah, I can do it. Go have fun."  
  
It was a quiet and lonely drive home. He tried to go to sleep once he was settled down in bed, but he found he was having another bout of insomnia. He tried putting on another record, but gave up before he could get to the B-side - it just wasn't the same. It was getting to be too late that he had begun to lose hope of catching a single wink, so he resigned to the old faithful - coffee. He filled his cup with guilt, knowing Micky wouldn't approve of his habits. But Micky wasn't around anymore.  
  
It wasn't long before Davy and Peter came home. They were whispering to each other, and giggled when they saw Mike on the couch. They were obviously a little tipsy.  
  
"Night, Mike," Peter said, going to his and Davy's bedroom. But Davy was a little slower.  
  
"So you and Peter, huh?" Mike inquired, taking a sip of his drink.  
  
"What you mean?" Davy asked. Mike threw him a knowing glance, and Davy caught on. He became a little panicked, as his mouth opened into an ' _oh'._  
  
"Don't worry, I'm groovy, man," Mike waved. "You seen me with any girls lately? Or ever?" Mike may have known since he was young, but he wouldn't say the word out loud. He'd never said it aloud and he wasn't about to - a habit picked up from growing up in Texas. Luckily, Davy seemed to have picked up on what Mike meant, albeit after a moment of confusion.  
  
"Mike, I would never have-"  
  
"Well, that's your hang up," Mike interrupted. "I'm no less likely than you."  
  
"Yeah, that's fair," Davy chuckled. Mike couldn't stop thinking about how this was the first time he had ever told anyone. He was glad it was Davy, of all people. "I still like birds, though."  
  
"That's fair," Mike echoed. "Can't say I blame you, though they're not really my bag. Hey, Davy, can I ask you something? If it's not too awkward already."  
  
"Shoot," Davy said simply.  
  
"How did ... you 'n' Peter?"  
  
"Oh," Davy blushed, not being able to contain his smile. "Well, you know, Peter and I have always been close ... But it was my birthday, and Peter woke me up early and gave me these beads he made as a present, and things just ... fell into place. 'N' we were just fooling around for a bit, but eventually ..."  
  
"Yeah, I get it," Mike smiled, with a hint of bitterness. Davy was wearing beads over his shirt, presumably the same ones he was talking about. God, he was just jealous of everybody these days.  
  
"You dig Micky, don't you?" Davy asked. His voice made it sound like this was a new realisation for him. He had probably started connecting the dots when Mike started asking about him and Peter.  
  
"Yeah ..." Mike sighed. He had never said it before. It felt unbearably real now. "But don't get your hopes up over playin' wingman. It's not gonna be like you 'n' Pete. Micky's not like that."  
  
"You can never be too sure," Davy teased. "Night, Mike."  
  
"Night, Davy."  
  
Mike half expected Micky to come and lean over the banister and tell him off for not sleeping. Say to him, _"C'mon, Mike, let's go to bed."_ But Micky was with Michelle, and the moment never came.  
  
Mike retired to his empty bedroom, putting on a different record. _Another Side of Bob Dylan._ But no matter how hard he tried to recapture it, nothing would feel quite the same as that night with Micky.  
  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Ever since Michelle had entered the picture, Micky had become more distant with Mike. But that may have been less to do with Michelle and more with what Mike had done. The entrance of Michelle into their lives and that night in their bedroom seemed to line up close enough that the line between the two was fairly blurred. What mattered was that Micky was no longer as comfortable around Mike as he used to be, and that hurt.  
  
Mike was still touchy with Micky, and had a chronic lack of concern for personal space - he couldn't help it, it was a bad habit. But he found Micky ducking away from his affection more often, so Mike tried to be more aware of what he was doing. _Jesus,_ _was I really that obvious?_  
  
They still spoke like normal, and they still hung out together when Peter and Davy had gone out without them. They still joked around. But there was always something between them left unsaid.  
  
It was one of the days that Micky and Mike were left alone.  
  
"Michelle invited me to her friends' party tonight," Micky said. "D'ya wanna come with?"  
  
Mike thought this invitation over. Sticking to the side lines and watching Micky have fun with his girlfriend didn't sound ideal, but maybe there would be some good drinks and he could be distracted from his problems for a bit, if he let himself. This seemed promising.  
  
"Sure," Mike answered. "But you're driving."  
  
"What, no!" Micky protested.  
  
"I'm always designated driver," Mike reasoned. "It's your turn."  
  
"Fine," Micky pouted. "Do you think Peter and Davy would wanna come with?"  
  
"Nah," Mike chuckled. "I think they'll be fine by themselves."  
  
"What?" Micky asked, picking up on Mike's joke, but not understanding what he meant. "What'd'you mean by that? What's so funny?"  
  
"Nothin'," Mike smirked, and Micky pouted at being left out. Mike continued to smile to himself.  
  
The night came quickly, as Micky drove them to the address in the monkeemobile. Mike was dressed in his usual button up shirt and tie, but Micky had decided to dress up with his tablecloth poncho and beads. Mike felt a little silly and underdressed. He loved that stupid poncho of Micky's. The outfit in theory should have looked ridiculous, but Micky wore it so well.  
  
Just as he expected, Mike didn't participate much in the party. He stuck to the sidelines, eyes out for anyone he knew, with a beer in his hand. He drank enough to be a little lightheaded, which he considered to be letting loose, for him.  
  
A bit into the night, Micky sidled up to him. "C'mon, let's dance."  
  
"I don't dance," Mike said.  
  
" _C'moooon_ ," Micky whined. "You made me be sober, and it's no fun."  
  
Mike couldn't say no to him. And he didn't have the chance to anyway, as Micky pulled him to the edges of the dance floor. He chugged the remainder of his beer, and danced with his curly-haired friend. 'Dance' was a pretty loose description - more like bounced his head in time with the music. But Micky looked happy enough, anyway.  
  
"I thought you'd be dancing with Michelle," Mike said. Micky had a habit of abandoning him when they went to parties.  
  
"I decided to take pity on you," Micky answered loudly over the music.  
  
"Mick," Mike chided.  
  
"Fine," Micky rolled his eyes. "We broke up a few minutes ago."  
  
"Oh," Mike said. His mind was a little sluggish as he processed this information. Maybe he was a little more than just lightheaded. But he did know that Micky tended to pretend things were fine when they weren't. "Are you okay? What happened?"  
  
"Nothing _happened,"_ Micky said sheepishly. "Michelle's great, and I definitely don't deserve her. But I just couldn't love her in the way she wanted me to."  
  
Micky hoped he hadn't revealed too much by saying that. But Mike was clueless. That was almost a requirement of being a monkee.  
  
"Oh," Mike repeated. "Breaking up with her at a party she invited you to seems pretty harsh, don't ya think?"  
  
"Yeah," Micky sighed. "I feel like an asshole but ... I couldn't keep leading her on, ya know?"  
  
Mike was missing several hints.  
  
Micky threw his arms onto Mike's shoulders. "C'mon, you can do better than that," Micky chuckled, forcing Mike to sway to the music. "Put a little effort in, Nesmith, I'm embarrassed to be seen with you."  
  
Mike chuckled, moving out of Micky's reach. "I told you, I don't dance," Mike said, but he did a little groove anyway to make Micky laugh again.  
  
"Damn right, you don't, that was awful," Micky giggled.  
  
They continued like that for a little while. Micky got lost in the music, and was singing along and dancing, and Mike let himself watch without feeling guilty. Micky didn't have a girlfriend now. And they were just two friends at a party. What was wrong with looking?  
  
Mike had a few more drinks before they left.  
  
The night had gone better than he'd hoped. He flopped down onto his bed, and the room was only spinning a little bit. He smiled to himself. Alcohol made him giddy.  
  
"I'm gonna put on a record that _I_ like tonight," Micky teased. Mike waited in gleeful anticipation, but groaned when the first few notes of _Drive My Car_ started from the record player. Micky rolled his eyes. "Just because we can't play a gig without someone mentioning The Beatles, doesn't mean they aren't good, _Michael_."  
  
"I know, I'm just playin', man," Mike smiled. "Your choice of music is guh- _roovy_ , I won't carry on about it, unlike you."  
  
"Was I wrong though? Bob Dylan can't sing, and you know it," Micky said defensively. Mike couldn't stop grinning.  
  
"Neither can Ringo," Mike pointed out.  
  
" _You_ said you wouldn't complain," Micky said. "And he only gets, like, one song per album."  
  
They continued like that for a while, playfully going back and forth, riffing off one another. They sat side by side on Mike's bed, but Mike didn't dare to try another risky stunt. He was content to just sit with Micky. He thought he was maybe coming to terms with the fact that he would never be able to be _the one_ for Micky. A strange time to come to that conclusion, considering there were no girls in the picture anymore. But he was tired of his feelings for Micky being soured by jealousy. The whole ordeal had worn him out.  
  
The last song of the A-side started playing. Micky groaned and Mike elbowed him playfully. " _Michelle, ma belle,"_ Mike drawled along to Paul McCartney's singing. Micky snorted at him and rolled his eyes. "Did you ever sing this to her?"  
  
"No," Micky said. "Maybe I should have. I was a pretty crummy boyfriend."  
  
"From what I saw, you were just fine," Mike mumbled. "Would have swept even me off my feet."  
  
"That's all I was. Fine," Micky scoffed. "I don't think I treated her badly. I tried not to. But we were only together because she happened to be there. I couldn't keep usin' her like that, ya dig?"  
  
"It's okay, Mick," Mike said. "Sometimes two people just don't fit together, and that's alright."  
  
"Yeah, s'pose so," Micky hummed in agreement. "Still feel guilty, though."  
  
Micky tapped his hands on his thighs along to the song. " _Michelle, ma belle,_ " Micky sang. " _Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble._ Maybe I should have stayed with her longer to ask her what that meant."  
  
"It's just 'these are words that go together well' again, but in French," Mike said. Micky raised his eyebrows.  
  
"How did you know that?" Micky gasped. Mike shrugged.  
  
"Took French in high school," he replied, bashfully. "Remembered some'f the words, 'n' figured it out with context."  
  
Micky continued to look at him in amazement. "You never told me that!" he said. "You're a lot like her, y'know."  
  
"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" Mike laughed.  
  
"You're both tall, smart and have funny accents. You're both pretty" Micky pointed out, listing off his points on his fingers. Mike decided to ignore the 'pretty' comment. "You're both leader types. Even your names are similar - Michelle and Michael."  
  
"My real name's Robert. And you're also Michael, or did ya forget that?" Mike quipped while Micky got up to flip the record. "And I'm not smart either, not like she is. She's a university student, I'm just a hick with a guitar."  
  
"You're smart in the way that matters. To me," Micky said.  
  
Mike groaned again as the record started up again. _What Goes On_ was the first song of the B-side. "Would it really be so hard to find a drummer who can sing?"  
  
"I think Ringo is a valuable member of The Beatles," Micky pouted. "Drummers've gotta look out for each other."  
  
"At least we've got a drummer with a voice," Mike said. _And what a voice it was._ "Take that, Fab Four."  
  
"Oh yeah? How's this for a voice?" Micky challenged, trying out an awful impression of Ringo Starr.  
  
"It's no better than your Dylan," Mike scoffed. Micky hit him. He continued humming the song before going back into singing, this time with his real voice. He could have outshone Ringo any day. Mike couldn't help but think Micky wasn't just singing _to_ him, but _for_ him, and in a way he was. Mike was completely smitten as Micky sang the next few songs.  
  
"Oh, I _love_ this one," Micky said in the kind of half-gasp he did sometimes. He cheerily sang along. About halfway through the song, Micky jumped off the bed, holding out his hand. "You gotta dance with me, Mike. There's nobody around, you gotta."  
  
"I told you, I don't dance, Mick," Mike said. "Not even alone, I can't do it."  
  
Micky pouted, and that giddy feeling was coming back, so he stood up anyway. He wondered if he was ever going to get over his thing for Micky. "You don't gotta be good at it," Micky said. "Watch." Micky did some awkward little jumping groove, which made Mike laugh, and made Micky laugh harder when Mike tried to copy it.  
  
The record continued on.  
  
 _I'm looking through you,_  
  
 _You're not the same_  
  
There they were, awkwardly jumping around to The Beatles, probably waking Davy and Peter up - if they were even home, Mike hadn't checked. Micky's beads clicked against each other as they danced. They were out of breath as the song ended, and they stood looking at each other silently. Now it was Mike's turn to say, "Oh, I love this song."  
  
"I do too," Micky smiled. It was hard not to love it. They stood there awkwardly for a second, before Micky took the lead, and lead Mike into a small, swaying dance. Mike blushed, choosing to focus on the song instead of his two left feet, and Micky's hands on his shoulders. Or worse, his hands on Micky's waist.  
  
Mike started to sing along. He couldn't help it. " _But of all these friends and lovers, there is no one compares with you."_ Micky liked how it sounded with Mike's accent. He blushed at the thought of Mike singing it for him. Which he was, but Micky didn't know that. The song continued, and so did their swaying. " _I_ _n my life, I'll love you more."_  
  
There was a constant swarming of butterflies in Mike's stomach. Micky didn't notice how flustered Mike was. Mike, in turn, didn't notice Micky's own flusteredness.  
  
Mike did notice Micky's unreadable expression, however. His brows were furrowed, and it made Mike have the instinct to back off a little bit and separate himself. But Micky was staring intently at Mike's lips, and he could have sworn the other boy was leaning towards him. And goddamn it, Mike couldn't help himself. He was leaning in too.  
  
For a split second, Mike seemed to assess the situation. He was tired of having this unspoken _thing_ between him and Micky. He was tired of treading around what was acceptable and what was crossing a boundary. And he remembered Michelle. He remembered what had happened earlier that night. _I don't want to be anyone's sloppy seconds._ And those thoughts were enough for him to take control of himself. At the last minute, he turned his head, reaching for the record cover.  
  
"Just seein' what songs're next," he mumbled, flipping it over to the back face. A photo of George Harrison stared back, judging him. Micky nodded, still left with an unreadable expression. Mike laid the cover back on the dresser, and sat on his own bed. Micky moved to sit beside him, but Mike waved him off.  
  
"I'm gonna sleep," he said. "You should go to your own bed."  
  
Micky nodded again, oddly silent. He removed his boots, his beads and his poncho, and laid down in the striped sweater and pants he had worn to the party. Mike fell asleep, still in his tie.  
  
What he had failed to consider, in that split second, was what Micky had said when revealing his and Michelle's breakup. _'But I couldn't love her in the way she wanted me to.'_  
  
 _\---------------------------------------------------------------------_  
  
"Don't even think about it," Micky threatened. He had taken hold of Mike's collar and seemed about ready to drag him back. _How is this boy so good at noticing me sneaking around?_  
  
Mike couldn't sleep again. He was almost making a habit out of being caught by Micky.  
  
"I'll come back to bed, you can let go of my collar," Mike sighed. Micky beamed down at him, with a satisfied expression. It was the night after the party, and Mike had been avoiding Micky all day. But now that it was after hours, there was no other place to go.  
  
"What should we listen to tonight?" Micky asked, though he said it more like a statement to himself, rifling through the records. Mike had just about had enough of this. There was no way Micky didn't know what he was doing. Not after the last night.  
  
"We can't keep doin' this, Mick," Mike spoke up. "I don't know how much more I can take."  
  
"What do you mean?" Micky asked, face falling. His look of confusion looked genuine, but Mike knew he was a good actor.  
  
"C'mon, there's no way in hell you don't know what you're doing," Mike said. "The singin' to me, the sleeping in my bed. Then you go off and find yourself a girlfriend and you don't wanna do that no more, but the minute she's outta the picture you come right back. You're messin' with me, man, and I'm not gonna take it anymore."  
  
"Mike," Micky said. "I don't-"  
  
"I don't wanna be your rebound, and I don't wanna be messed with just because you think it's funny," Mike interrupted.  
  
"I don't understand what you're saying!" Micky almost yelled, in an attempt to get Mike to shut up for a second. "What do you mean 'rebound', a-and what is it that I'm supposed to know?"  
  
"Do I gotta say it out loud?" Mike asked. He sounded like he was about to cry just thinking about it. Micky nodded. He placed his hand on Mike's shoulder as a gesture of support, but Mike quickly moved himself away. He stood, awkwardly picking at his nails, and staring at the carpet. "It's just ... jeez, Mick, with all the things you do, it's obvious you're just taking advantage of the way I feel about you."  
  
"You ... have feelings ... for me?" Micky asked, connecting the dots. Mike nodded. He looked just about ready to die from embarrassment. _He didn't know. Micky didn't know and now I've gone and told him and now he does know and I can't take it back._ They stood in silence as Micky tried to figure out what to say, only to come up empty.  
  
"Screw this," Mike mumbled. He stormed out the bedroom door and down the stairs.  
  
"Mike, wait," Micky called. Mike continued to leave, walking faster than Micky could keep up with. He left through the back door, onto the beach. Micky trailed behind him. "Mike!"  
  
Micky eventually caught up to him, and Mike slowed to a stop, having nowhere else to go. Tears were welling in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Mick, I was selfish, and I was expectin' too much from you," he sniffed. "I was readin' too much into things and now I've gone and made everything rotten."  
  
"Mike, you didn't," Micky said. "You're not stupid ... there was something going on between us, and I knew it. But I thought I was being pushy and you were too scared to let me down, and honestly I didn't even _know_ I felt that way about you, so I freaked out and got myself the first girl I saw to distract myself, and I broke up with her because of that and I wanted to give you space, but then Michelle was gone and you were being nice and I couldn't help myself, but you kept turning me down last night and I thought you hated me!"  
  
Micky was talking so fast Mike could barely keep up. But there was one part of his rambling that he did latch onto. ' _I didn't even know I felt that way about you.'_ Felt what way? Mike knew the answer to that question, and it scared him out of his boots.  
  
"Mick?" Mike interrupted. His hands were shaking as he spoke. "Last night, when we were listening to _In My Life._ Were you gonna kiss me?"  
  
"Yeah," Micky said. "Were you?"  
  
"Yeah," Mike replied.  
  
"Do you still want to?" Micky asked.  
  
"Yeah," Mike replied.  
  
Mike was getting up the nerve to do it, when Micky beat him to it. It was a little rough at first, from Micky's overenthusiastic nature, but eventually they sighed into each other. Micky's hands held either side of Mike's face like he would fall over if he let go. Mike's hands were more tentative, awkward.  
  
"What are we gonna tell Davy and Peter?" Micky asked, when they pulled away. Mike chuckled.  
  
"I don't think we need to worry about their reaction," Mike laughed. Micky raised his eyebrow. "They're quite ... taken with each other."  
  
"No way!" Micky exclaimed, slapping Mike's chest lightly. They were silent for a few moments.  
  
"This isn't just a big joke, is it?" Mike asked.  
  
"No, Mike," Micky chuckled. "I didn't mean to make you think I was having you on. I was being genuine with all that ... flirting I s'pose."  
  
Mike just laughed. He didn't have much else to add. "C'mon, Mick, let's go back to bed."  
  
When they got back to their bedroom Micky once again asked, "So what should we listen to?"  
  
Mike pulled Micky into a hug, burying his face in to crook of Micky's neck. "Do you have The Byrds? I haven't listened to that cover you said you liked yet."


End file.
